


Arren's Alphabet

by MsBarrows



Series: Arren & Co. [14]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alphabet Meme, Character Study, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 16,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBarrows/pseuds/MsBarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of Arren Mahariel in 26 alphabetically named chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for Archery

**Author's Note:**

> One of my friends on Tumblr started a story-telling meme today, the idea of which is to choose a character you like and write 26 stories about them, one for each letter of the alphabet, titled in an "A is for apple, b is for bee" sort of way. I loved the idea, and decided it would be a great thing to do with Arren, whom I have an extensive headcanon for, of which we've seen very little so far in-story.
> 
> These will be jumping all over the place in time, not following any particular sequence other than the alphabetical titling criteria.

Arren drew in a deep, steadying breath, then held it for a moment as he sighted along the arrow at the rabbit grazing in the small clearing. He was about to release when he heard the sharp snap of someone else's string right behind him, the faint whiffling sound of an arrow flashing past him. The sound and movement made him jump; his own arrow went astray, disappearing into the tall grass and bushes at the far said of the clearing.

He bit back a curse at the familiar sound of Tamlen's laughter. "You're still too slow, _lethallin_ ," the other elf said, clapping him on the shoulder before pushing past him to go pick up the body and add it to their game bag.

Arren frowned unhappily as he crossed the clearing in search of his arrow. It was mandatory for everyone in their clan to learn archery, and many elves stuck with the bow as their main or only weapon, but he'd never been entirely comfortable with it. At least he was finally considered skilled enough in archery to be allowed to try out other weapons as well, to see if there was something he'd rather use for melee combat; he was supposed to see the master weaponscrafter later this very day in order to try out different weapons and see if any suited him. But first he needed to find his arrow.

He was still carefully parting the grasses in search of it when Tamlen came over. The other elf snorted in amusement and leaned past him, plucking his arrow out of an overhanging bush. "Here, _da'len_ ," he said as he handed it over, earning a sour look from Arren.

"I am no child," Arren pointed out, annoyed. "And there are not so many years between us that you should be calling me one."

"Easy, _lethallin_ , I meant no harm by it," Tamlen responded, holding up his empty hands in a placating gesture. "You are touchy as a shemlem lately. Come, we have enough game to contribute to the pot, let us go back to camp."

Arren bit back his further annoyance at being compared to shemlem, and followed his friend back to camp. Tamlen was right though; he had been touchy of late. Perhaps he needed to go off and spend some time on his own, sorting out his thoughts and feelings, until he was back in balance with himself. He had made such a retreat once before, many years ago, and he still recalled the deep sense of peace he had felt by the end, and how calm he had felt for long months afterwards.

They parted at the edge of the camp, Tamlen carrying their game bag off to the cooking area, Arren circling around the outside of the aravels until he reached the one belonging to the weaponsmaster.

"Master Ilen?" he called. The master appeared in the doorway of his aravel, and smiled warmly at Arren.

"Aneth ara, Arren – I will be with you in a moment. Go around to the side, I have put out some weapons for you to try. Handle each in turn while you wait for me."

"Ma nuvenin," Arren agreed, dipping his head politely before walking around to the other side of the aravel. A number of weapons had been spread out on a trestle table; daggers and swords of various lengths and widths, a club, a small mace – most carved of ironwood, though a few were items of metal. He worked his way down the table, picking up and holding each weapon in turn, giving each an experimental swing, to get a feel for their weight and balance, trying to imagine actually using such a weapon in battle. A few of the swords felt good in his hand – better than his bow did – and he put them aside at one end of the table for closer inspection once the master was here.

Master Ilen had still not emerged from his aravel when Arren finished. He stood uncertainly by the end of the table, not sure what to do. Retry the heft of the weapons that had seemed welcoming, perhaps? Or just wait quietly...

He looked over toward the cooking are to see if Tamlen was in sight, and as he turned back, having seen no sign of his lethallin, a weapon leaning against the side of the aravel caught his eyes. A beautifully carved ironwood sword, taller than he was and very broad in the blade, with the hilt well-wrapped in leather for a better grip. He stared at it, then walked closer. Who would possibly use such a gigantic blade? Perhaps it was some sort of practice piece, meant to be art, not weapon...

On closer inspection he saw that its edge was as well-honed as that on the more normal-sized daggers and swords. He bit his lip, studying the lovely weapon, then almost without conscious thought found himself reaching for it, carefully lifting it from the ground. It was much lighter than he'd expected from the size of it; he could bare it one-handed, with some difficulty, but it was felt... unbalanced. He placed his left hand above his right on the surprisingly lengthy hilt, and frowned. Almost...

He shifted his hands slightly, the left closer to the crosspiece, the right closer to the pommel, and found its proper balance point. From being too heavy, and clumsy, it suddenly felt light as a feather and surprisingly easy to hold and handle; just a small motion of his right hand, pivoting it within his left, was enough to swing the tip of the blade a surprising distance. He tried a few passes with it, trying to imagine how one would correctly _use_ such a massive weapon, excited over the possibilities it seemed to offer.

He heard a low laugh, and jumped, turning his head to see Master Ilen giving him an amused smile. "That blade was not among those I put out for you to try," the master scolded mildly. "But I see you like it."

"Very much," Arren agreed enthusiastically. "I've never seen such a large blade! I could hardly believe it was a real weapon at first."

Master Ilen grinned, walking forward to take it from Arren, checking the blade carefully before restoring it to its former position. "It is a real weapon – a greatsword, a fairly common weapon among the shemlen. I carved it for a friend of mine; he sent a messenger to find me two years ago, after finding a fallen ironwood tree on his lands. He asked for a greatsword for him in exchange for the remainder of the tree; naturally I accepted. When I went away from the tribe last summer, that was to pick up the wood for the sword. He'd already had the log cut into billets to dry, so by this spring just past it was seasoned enough that I was able to begin work on the sword for him. We will pass by his lands soon; I will deliver the sword and receive the rest of the wood in payment."

"It's beautiful," Arren said softly, looking at it enviously, before turning back to the table where the single-handed weapons were still laid out.

He and Master Ilen spent some time trying the different weapons out, paying particular attention to the ones he'd put aside earlier, holding and handling them under the master's direction.

Master Ilen frowned thoughtfully once he had finished. "You definitely have an affinity for the swords over the daggers or blunt weapons," he said thoughtfully. "And the largest of my longswords at that. Tell me... of all the swords you handled today, which felt the most natural in your hands?"

Arren frowned down at the selection of swords in front of him. The three he'd liked the most were on the table directly in front of him. He reached out, then hesitated, hand hovering over a hilt rather than closing on it, and bit his lip.

"Well?" Ilen snapped. "Which one, Arren?"

Arren's head snapped up, and he pointed. "That one," he said decisively, pointing to the greatsword.

Master Ilen snorted, an amused smile briefly crossing his face. "I thought it seemed very comfortable in your hands. Well. Elves who take up the great weapons are rare, but in my lifetime I have made one or two such swords for customers other than shemlen. Since I only have the one, and it is not one I can loan to you, we will start you with the largest and heaviest of the longswords for now. And if you decide you would prefer the greatsword, then once I have collected the rest of the word, we can discuss the terms for me to make such a sword for you. Though I warn you now, the quantity of ironwood it will use will make it quite an expensive weapon; be very certain of your choice."

Arren nodded. He picked up the longsword Master Ilen indicated, and it felt well enough in his hands, but he already knew; he wanted a greatsword. Archery was all well and good for hunting game, or picking off targets at a distance, and he supposed a longsword would do well enough for now, but he wanted a _real_ blade, a sword as impressive and lovely as the one Ilen had made for the shemlen.


	2. B is for Brotherhood

Arren had belonged to many brotherhoods in his life. As an orphan among the Dalish, the clan was his extended family; every older man and woman his uncle or aunt, every young elf his sibling. But his closest brother among them had been his _lethallin_ Tamlen, with whom he had sworn blood brotherhood at a young age, the two of them gashing open their hands and sharing blood in a childish rite as old as elvenkind. It earned them a scolding, but that just made them feel even closer together. A closeness that never faded, a brotherhood shared, until Tamlen disappeared and Arren found himself abruptly alone.

After the foolish adventure that lost him both his brother and his clan, he felt adrift and friendless until Ostagar, until the ceremony that ameliorated the poisonous taint in his blood and gave him a new brotherhood, and new brothers; the Grey Wardens, and Alistair. He'd been surprised by how much – and how quickly – he came to like the big blond _shemlen_. The man was nothing at all like his lost brother Tamlen, but that was good; fewer things to remind him of a brotherhood broken, abandoned, lost forever. Alistair was his own self – capable but lacking confidence, brave and kind but self-demeaning, strong and thoughtful and awkward and given to strange humours. And close as a brother to Arren, as close as he had been with Tamlen. It was as if the taint they shared in their blood made them as much blood brothers, as the young innocent blood he had so long ago shared with Tamlen had done.

In time there was a third brotherhood, a band of men – and women – forming around himself and Alistair, working together in shared effort to combat the blight. He _built_ that brotherhood, a makeshift clan of his own, a family of wanderers and misfits and criminals – a witch, a religious, a murderer, a suicidal assassin, a grandmotherly healer, a tortured blood mage. It was not a perfect family; far from it. Some of them annoyed each other, some of them annoyed him, but somehow they made it work, the faults of one made up for by the strengths of another, and all of them committed for one reason or another to working together, to _ending_ this blight. He was surprised and pleased to find respect and affection with the witch; equally pleased to see his brother Alistair find a new self-confidence with the blood mage, who was made whole again by Alistair's love.

He was angered – and disappointed – over the failure of the bard to fit in with the others, to the point that he found himself dismissing her one day. Angered as much at himself as at her; it felt like a personal failure, that he had not been able to keep his new family whole. He wondered if this feeling of failure, of disappointment, was what Marethari had felt when Tamlen disappeared without trace, when he himself was lost to the clan due to the poison in his blood.

His brotherhood grew even closer together after that, and larger in size; they acquired a drunken dwarf, a gentle giant of a mage, an elven mage with child-like stature, and a city elf, broken and strange but a fierce fighter.

He loved his new brothers and sisters, all of them. And he feared the final battle ahead of them, feared to lose any member of this new family, this haphazard brotherhood, this collection of friends and self-selected family, as he had lost Tamlen, as he had lost his clan, lost his familiar world.

Yet someone must stop this blight, at whatever cost.


	3. C is for Curiosity

Arren and Tamlen had always loved exploring, going off from the path of travel of the clan and seeing what there was to see in the forest around them. They loved the beauty of their forest home; the tall trees, the sunlit glades, the winding streams and little waterfalls, the grumpy bears and snarling wolves, the herds of wild deer and of halla, which could only be found in areas the elves frequented. Or perhaps it was just that the elves usually only frequented areas where the halla could be found, areas where the _shemlen_ had not encroached. Of course, the elves also drove humans away from the areas they frequented, which protected the halla, so perhaps it was some mix of both.

The curiosity of three humans brought them across the path of Tamlen and Arren, one bright day when the pair were indulging their own curiosity, wandering far from camp. The words of the _shemlen_ and their own curiosity led the pair to the ruins. And into them, where they encountered numerous giant spiders – a common peril of such places – and then, more horrifyingly, the walking undead.

And it was curiosity that drew them through a final door, into a large partially-ruined room, inhabited by a strange, ferocious creature. It was like a bear in appearance, but a bear horribly mangled and transmuted into some warped form. They fought it, having little choice after it charged roaring at them from the darkened recesses of the room. And killed it, with difficulty, Tamlen feathering it with arrow after arrow while Arren sunk his greatsword into it again and again. They were both blood-spattered and exhausted by the time it died, the beast fighting on through injuries that would have killed any normal animal before finally succumbing to bow and blade.

They should have left then, Arren knew it, but Tamlen was too intrigued by the large, beautifully framed mirror in the centre of the ruined hall. His curiosity led them to it. A tentative touch to the oddly glistening surface of the mirror sent ripples moving outward, as if it was a vertical plane of quicksilver and no solid surface.

Curiosity, in the end, proved dangerous. Arren's last memory of Tamlen was off the other elf shouting in horror and shoving him backwards, away from the mirror, as something dark heaved in the shadows behind their reflections. His head hit the ground hard; whether the final flash of light he saw before he passed out was an effect of the blow that cracked his skull, or came from the mirror, he would never know.

He woke back in camp, days later, to find he'd been dragged back there two days before by a _shemlen_ , a Grey Warden, a man known to the Keeper. Of Tamlen there was no trace; not since he'd been found. Not even when he returned to the cave with Merrill's aid, and searched for any sign of his lost friend. It was as if Tamlen vanished from the face of Thedas in that dank cave.

Yet when he left the camp afterwards with the Grey Warden Duncan, feeling sick in both mind and body, he could not help feeling a surge of fresh curiosity, cutting through his loss and loneliness like a brisk breeze clearing away the morning fog.

What would his future bring to him? What new sights would he see, out there in the lands of the humans and flat-ears – whom would he meet, what adventures might he have?

Even as he mourned the loss of Tamlen, of his clan, of everything he'd known and loved, he couldn't help but cling to that rising anticipation, because it was one of the things that he and Tamlen had always shared, that need to go and see, to find out for themselves, to _know_ ; their curiosity.


	4. D is for Dogs

Even in the depths of the forest, among the Dalish clans, Arren had heard of the Fereldan love of dogs. Any and all dogs, but most particularly the great mabari warhounds, the uncannily intelligent beasts that served at their side.

Legends varied as to the source of the giant dogs; some claimed they were descended from the wolves who had served Dane, an ancient hero of Ferelden; he had, among other things, been a werewolf for a time, later wiping them out, and been foster-father to Hafter, the first teryn of what later became Ferelden. Others claimed the great hounds had been bred by the Formari of the Tevinter Empire, and brought to Ferelden during an invasion, where they abandoned the service of their former masters and were happily adopted by the dog-loving people. Whatever the case may have been, the mabari were a dog that had an almost revered status among the Fereldans.

It was at Ostagar that Arren saw the hounds for himself for the first time.. They were indeed impressive animals, large and powerful of build, with oversized heads, thick necks, and massive forequarters. Their hindquarters seemed surprisingly small in comparison, but gave them an astonishing turn of speed, the short but powerful legs able to tuck up and kick back, giving them a sprint like a startled rabbit.

And they were everywhere in camp, it seemed – following at the heels of their noble masters, or lying around near the Ash Warriors who fought in partnership with the giant hounds. It was there that he met the mabari who later became his hound, or he its person... a great counter-shaded grey beast with a pale creamy stomach, lying sick on the straw-covered floor of its pen. Its master had died, and the great hound was half-mad with grief, injured, and sickening from having contacted the tainted blood of the darkspawn. The kennel master was too nervous of its current disposition to approach the beast himself; Arren ended up going into the pen to muzzle the poor beast so the man could clean and tend its wounds. He even sought out some herbs the man needed, when he went out in the Korcari Wilds with Alistair and the other warden recruits to collect darkspawn blood for their joining ritual.

It seemed like the workings of fate that he was later reunited with the same dog, recovered from its illness, the hound arriving just in time to warm Alistair, Morrigan and himself of approaching darkspawn. It clearly wanted to accompany him; he let it do so. He named it Mouse, for the uncanny resemblance of its colouring to the tiny grey mice he had sometimes seen scurrying about their business in the forest.

Within a very short time he came to understand the attachment of the Fereldans to their ferocious hounds; Mouse was more than just a simple dog, more than just a mute companion with the ability to follow simple commands. He _listened_ when he was spoken to, not like an animal would, but like a human would, and Arren could see that the dog was _thinking_ about what was said to him, _deciding_ how to respond.

After coming to that realization, it somehow didn't surprise him when his companions, as he acquired them, all took to talking to Mouse as much as they talked to anyone else in the party; sometimes more. Even the non-Fereldans; Sten, who usually answered in little more than monosyllables to attempts at conversation – at least for the first few weeks, after which he finally became at least a little more garrulous – often talked with the hound, conversations that would have seemed like lengthy one-sided monologues except for Mouse's barked and growled responses. The assassin, the witch, the bard – they all spent time conversing with the hound, though only Sten seemed truly capable of deciphering his responses.

It _did_ surprise him at first when one of his later companions, the mage Jowan, on learning from Morrigan how to shape-change, chose the mabari as the form to take; and yet it made sense. As a mabari, Jowan could trot along at Alistair's heels, and be talked to by the members of their party as if he was fully human, and not raise even a single eyebrow. It was the perfect disguise for the mage. And he made an impressive mabari; larger even than Mouse, with a midnight-black coat and eerily pale grey eyes – anyone looking at the sinister-looking, powerful beast would never have believed it was actually a small, nervous mage. Though they did take the precaution of using a different name for him when he was in hound form, referring to him as Briar, to make it that much less likely that anyone would make the connection between mage and mabari. Jowan clearly enjoyed being his alter-ego Briar, happily trotting around in hound form much of the time, and going off hunting with Mouse, the two hounds usually dragging Alistair along with them – seemingly to carry back the game they caught, a task the hounds weren't particularly adept at on their own.

They were far more than just the "tamed flat-ear wolves" that some of his people named him. Mouse was his companion, a fellow warrior, as much his friend as Alistair was, as much a person of any of the rest of Arren's companions, for all that he went on four legs while they walked on two. "Dog" seemed such a poor, almost demeaning term for such a person; he understood now why Fereldan's almost always referred to them as "mabari", reserving "dog" for lesser beasts. _Mabari_ at least had some dignity to it.

Not that mabari themselves always had dignity; Mouse was not above playing practical jokes on Arren's companions, and his sense of humour was rather crude, often involving as it did either small dead animals or great quantities of drool.

But at least he _had_ a sense of humour.


	5. E is for Exile

Arren had never imagined that he would ever leave his clan. Oh, yes, perhaps for a short period of time, to go off on his own for a while; all Dalish did that, when the unending _togetherness_ of clan life began to be too much for them. Or he might have changed clans, at the next Arlathvhen, the once-a-decade meeting of the clans, had he found he particularly disliked his own clan, or met someone he wanted to remain with in another; the Arlathven was as much about finding out-clan mates as being a chance for the Keepers to meet, share news, consult.

But he had never expected to leave the clans forever. He didn't feel sick; not really sick. Just an odd feeling of something being not quite right with him, as if his balance was just slightly off, or as if there was a ringing in his ears that was hovering just below the point of being truly audible. But both of those could be explained by the blow to the head he'd taken, when Tamlen had shoved him away from the mirror they'd found, deep in the ruins. This – whatever _this_ was – was something worse. Far worse.

Keeper Marethari and the Grey Warden, Duncan, both insisted he was ill; deathly ill. That the slight _wrongness_ he was feeling in himself was the precursor signs of a lethal sickness. The blight sickness, spoken of in stories passed down from the previous blights. There was no cure for it, only a wasting, and madness, and a horrific death. Though Duncan claimed he might know a cure.

And on that slim chance for healing he was sent away from his clan, to join the Grey Wardens. There could be no return from this trip; live or die, he was committed elsewhere now, for whatever remained of his life.

Exiled from the only life he'd ever known.


	6. F is for Fathers

There hadn't been time to talk of Alistair's sudden revelation earlier, spoken in his usual half-joking, self-deprecating manner as they finally reached Redcliffe, late in the afternoon. Of who his father was, and why he felt so obligated to Arl Eamon, despite the man's treatment of him. Arren had heard enough by now to feel sure that his friend was seeing the Arl's actions in a far more favourable light than most people would; certainly more favourably than Arren did.

But before he could really talk with Alistair about his revelation, they'd spotted the man guarding the bridge, and after that there hadn't been _time_. They'd been too busy rushing around; down to the chantry to meet and talk to Bann Teagan, outside and all over the village, up and down the hill several times, hurrying around getting the village ready to attempt a defence against the nightly invasion.

And then had come the long anxious wait, and the battle itself, everyone working together to defend the hard-hit town while the non-combatants huddled in fear in the chantry. Bann Teagan guarded the doors with the aid of a handful of old men and young boys, the final line of defence if the fighters outside fell to the undead, or if some of them tried to enter the chantry by some other route. Every able-bodied man and woman who could was bearing a weapon, helping in the fight that raged outside the chantry and on the paths above the village. The attack lasted over an hour, undead streaming across the castle bridge, more coming out of the lake itself, to launch a two-pronged attack on the village.

Somehow, they made it through; made it through without losing even a single one of the villagers. A quick search was made of the village to ensure there were no remaining undead lingering anywhere, then most of the fighters retreated inside the chantry to get what sleep they could, a handful remaining on guard outside in case there was a further attack.

Arren was too keyed up to sleep, and felt the need for a little time to himself, not crammed into the chantry with everyone else. Morrigan had already disappeared, vanishing off into the darkness shortly after the fighting had ended. She was doubtless tucked away somewhere safe as a bird of some kind, or perhaps as a wolf. He wished she was here with him, but they'd been avoiding each other since the night he'd spent in her tent, neither of them sure how to handle this change in their relationship.

He was almost to where the bit of gravel beach ended and the cliffs rose up, when he realized there was someone already there, sitting on a boulder at the water's edge. He was about to withdraw when the man shifted , leaning forward from the shadow of the cliff into the faint moonlight, and he recognized who it was.

"Alistair," he said, resuming his walk forward, his feet crunching on the rounded pebbles underfoot.

Alistair looked up. "Arren," he acknowledged, tiredly. Arren walked over to him, Alistair shifting aside on the boulder to clear enough space for the other warrior to sit down beside him. They both stared out over the lake in silence, to the rocky offshore island that Redcliffe Castle perched on top of.

"So that's where you grew up?" Arren asked after a while, nodding toward the castle.

"Yeah," Alistair said. He bent down and picked up a handful of pebbles, pouring them from hand to hand for a moment, before selecting one and flicking it off to disappear into the smooth water with a tiny _plip_ of sound. "More or less," he said, sending another pebble off after the first. "In the castle for the first few years, then out in the stables. Until I was... ten, I think. Then off to the chantry I went; no longer needed. Or wanted. Not that I ever was," he added bitterly, tossing more pebbles away, one after another. "My father didn't want me. The Arl looked after me, but... I was the child of a serving woman."

"And of a King. Don't you humans place great store in royal blood?"

A snort out of the darkness. A few more pebbles plipped into the lake. "Supposedly, yes. You couldn't tell it by _me_ though." A long silence. "What was your father like, Arren?"

"I don't know," Arren admitted softly. "He died before I was born. And my mother shortly after. I have no memories of her at all," he said softly, and raised one foot to brace against the rock, resting folded arms on top of his upraised knee, and his chin atop them in turn.

"Oh," Alistair said, surprised, and went very still for a moment. "What... happened to them?" he asked the words almost reluctantly, as if wary of what the answer would be.

"My father was the Keeper of my clan before the current one; my mother a hunter from another clan. They met at one of the _Arlathvhen_ of the clans – that's a meeting of clans, held once every ten years – and fell in love. The elders of her tribe did not approve of the match, even if my father was a Keeper. They forbade it. But she and my father were much in love, and somehow kept in contact, and whenever their clans were close enough would sneak out into the forest to meet together."

He fell silent then, not liking the rest of the tale; he'd only learned it himself shortly before leaving clan.

"What happened to them?" Alistair asked.

Arren sighed. "One day, they were surprised by bandits – a group of humans and flat-ears."

"Flat-ears?"

"What you would call city elves; elves who have forgotten how to be elves, and mimic the ways of humans instead," Arren explained. "My father died, protecting my mother, giving her the chance to flee. She abandoned her own clan then, feeling it was their fault that he had died; that if the elders had not forbidden her to join with him and join his clan, he might still be alive. She lived long enough to bear me, and then just... walked away from the clan one night. She did not return; everyone believes she died, unwilling to continue living without my father."

"I'm sorry," Alistair said softly after several minutes of silence had passed by.

Arren shrugged slightly, and straightened up again, foot dropping back down to the ground. "I never knew either of them; I was raised by the clan. Everybody's child and no one's. I had no siblings, no real aunts or uncles – but I was well-looked-after, and I had Tamlen, my _lethallin_ , brother to me in every way but blood."

Another long silence, broken only by the pebbles going _plip_ into the lake.

"Did you ever see your own father?" Arren asked after a while, to break the silence.

"Once or twice. From a distance; never up close. I never got to know him; he might as well have been dead as well, for all the good he ever did me," Alistair added, the bitterness touching his voice again.

Arren reached out, and squeezed his shoulder gently. Alistair turned and looked at him for a moment, then abruptly tossed the remaining pebbles out into the lake. "We should get back," he said softly.

Arren nodded. The two rose and walked back to the chantry in silence.

They would need to speak of this more later, Arren knew; his friend bore too much pain from his past, from the distancing of his father and the neglect of Arl Eamon. But not now; there was not enough time for it now.


	7. G is for Green

The worst part of the Deep Roads, Arren decided, was not the heat, or the constant feeling of claustrophobia. Nor was it the swarms of deep stalkers, the giant spiders, or even the seemingly endless amounts of darkspawn. The stench of the odd blighted growths throughout the tunnels, the whispering of the archdemon in his dreams, sometimes even in his waking mind, the insidious tingling _strangeness_ he felt whenever they neared outcrops of lyrium crystal, all were things he could live with, because he had no other choice.

Spying the archdemon was terrifying. Fighting the broodmother was horrifying, waking a sickening feeling that Arren knew would stay with him for the rest of his life, the knowledge of the true source of darkspawn a nightmare that he would never forget. The sickening feeling of learning what Branka had done to those who had been her clan, of what the origins of golems were, those too were horrors.

But the worst part of the Deep Roads, Arren found, was the lack of anything green and growing. He'd spent his entire life in a verdant forest; even after leaving it to join the Grey Wardens, he'd spent almost all his time outdoors, surrounded by grassland, forests, swamps, fields and meadows, farmland, dry dusty hills, towering pine trees. But here, in the heart of what had once been the dwarven empire, there was no green; ther were no plants.

No wonder the dwarves spoke of the Stone with such reverence; it surrounded you here, in every direction, the only constant. Stone, stone and more stone, until he felt parched and dry, longing to see even one plant, one leaf, one blade of grass, the simple scabrous flakes of lichen, but even that simplest of growths was not to be found here in the Deep Roads.

He _ached_ for green.


	8. H is for Hunting

Arren looked around the clearing, as everyone wordlessly set to their scheduled tasks for the evening; Morrigan getting out vegetables to peel and chop up and add to their pot of never-ending stew, Wynne and Oghren clearing a space for a fire pit, Sten gathering rocks for it, while Zevran, Owen and Mara began unloading their tents and bedding from Bodahn's cart and began setting them up.

Alistair walked over to Arren, Jowan trailing along at his heels. "We could use more meat for the pot," he pointed out.

Arren smiled warmly at the man. "Then I suppose we should go hunting and see what we can find," he said, and whistled for his mabari, Mouse. He looked at Jowan. "You planning to come along?" he asked. "We could use the help hunting."

Jowan nodded and smiled shyly, looking pleased, then his form shimmered and condensed downwards. The small mage – he was shorter than Arren was – disappeared, resolving a moment later as a sizable mabari, a massive beast with a jet black coat and pale grey eyes that gave him a rather evil look. Mouse barked once and wagged his tail furiously, sniffing curiously at Briar, the mage-turned-mabari nosing briefly at the other hound's neck in turn.

Arren strung his bow, and the four exited the small stream-side copse, and walked out into the grasslands in search of game, the two mabari ranging out ahead of them. It wasn't long until Mouse stopped, showing intense interest in a small clump of thorny bushes. Briar immediately circled off to one side, then Mouse stalked closer to the bushes, every muscle tense.

A hare suddenly broke from cover, bounding off in an attempt to escape the danger it saw, Mouse following excitedly on its heels. It passed too close to Briar; he dove for it, and there was a flurry of movement that ended with Briar rising up with a limp hare hanging from his mouth, looking pleased with himself. He trotted back to them and dropped it at Alistair's feet, staying for a moment so Alistair could scratch his ears, then the mage-mabari dashed back to Mouse's side, the two hounds engaging in a brief excited tussle before they resumed their search for game.

A few minutes later the hounds flushed a pheasant out of the long grass; Arren's arrow brought it down, Mouse retrieving the corpse and carrying it over to Alistair; as his weapon skills rarely lent themselves to hunting, he was the official carrier-of-game on their hunts.

They got a second hare a short while later, and the two men decided that was more than enough meat for the pot. The dogs romped off to entertain themselves exploring and playing together while the two men carried the game over to the nearest bend of the stream, and set to cleaning them, Alistair gutting and skinning the hares while Arren settled down on a rock to clean and pluck the pheasant. They worked in companionable silence for a while, absorbed in their tasks. The hounds returned from their romp, both panting and happy-looking. Briar went and drank from the stream, while Mouse came over and daintily picked out tidbits from the pile of leavings to eat.

Alistair rolled the two skins together, then rose to his feet, the skinned hares in hand. "Ready to head back?" he asked.

Arren nodded, and rose as well, looking over the pheasant in his hand. "Ready enough," he agreed. They set off back along the stream to their camp, the hounds mainly following at their heels now, occasionally veering aside to check out things that smelled interesting to them before trotting back to rejoin their humans. It never ceased to amaze Arren how completely hound-like the mage was when he was in mabari form; if he hadn't seen the change from mage to mabari and back again countless times by now, he'd have found it hard to believe that the big self-confident mabari and the small, quiet mage were one and the same.

They arrived back to find the camp all set up, most of the group settled down by their tents, either working on maintaining their gear or just relaxing. Oghren was sitting by his tent, sipping thoughtfully from a flask. Wynne was perched on a small folding camp stool, reading a book, Mara sitting cross-legged on the ground nearby, doing the same. Owen and Zevran were nowhere in sight; doubtless the pair had gone off in search of some privacy. Sten was sharpening Asala. Morrigan looked up from stirring the pot of stew, and smiled welcomingly at the two Grey Wardens.

Arren smiled warmly back at her, then turned to Alistair and held out one hand. "I'll take those to Morrigan," he offered, gesturing at the hares. Alistair smiled slightly, and handed them over. "I'll just... go polish my armour or something," he agreed, and wandered off, Briar at his side.

Arren walked over to the fire, handing the hares to Morrigan, before squatting down to remove the last few feathers from the pheasant's carcass.

"You two had good luck with hunting today," Morrigan observed as she began cutting up the hares to add to the simmering pot. "A pity I was on cooking duty; I would have enjoyed going hunting as well. The grasslands around here seem quite pretty. And private," she added meaningfully, one brow arching just the slightest bit.

Arren hid a smile as he shot her a sideways look. "Perhaps we can go for a walk later, after the meal. Out into the grasslands," he said softly.

Morrigan's lips quirked into a small smile. "Perhaps we can," she agreed. " _Without_ your hound."

Arren grinned. "Of course," he agreed.


	9. I is for Irate

Arren did not think he'd ever been this angry in his life before. He was literally shaking with rage, trembling with the desire to hit the overly smug and gratingly obstinate man in front of him.

How could this man possibly be a Keeper? How could his clan, or the other Keepers, _someone_ , not have learned before now of the poisonous hatred that warped him, the dark magic that sustained him, the sickness that hollowed him of any potential for grace or goodness, that ate away and rotted his core, like a worm in his heart. His revenge had destroyed not just the handful of humans who had tormented his children so long ago, but destroyed the lives of untold humans and elves in the centuries since. Even now it was twisting and killing members of his own clan, elves he was sworn to guide and protect, yet he clearly valued his revenge over their lives.

He looked back and forth between Zathrian and the Spirit of the Forest, and thought of Danyla, the dying werewolf, once one of Zathrian's clan members, whom he'd dispatched in the forest a few days before. Of her husband's grief over learning of her death. Of the elves lying sickening in the camp. Of how these werewolves, so-called beasts, had desperately fought to protect themselves and their Lady from the threat they had believed Arren and his companions to be.

He felt dirtied, to have been forced into killing people whose only real fault was that they'd fallen prey to the one demented man's unending thirst for revenge against people long dead. Dirtied, and irate.

He knew whose side he was taking in this dispute.

Someone should be told, Arren decided as he watched the argument between the madman and the Spirit play out, as he fought against the Keeper, subdued him, saw him finally forced to dissolve his horrific curse and end his unnaturally long life. Someone needed to know what depths of depravity this so-called Keeper had sunk to.

He would write to Marethari, he decided, as he and his group reassured the frightened humans and elves after the curse dissolved. She would know what should be done with this news; what was right. He could trust her, where he wasn't at all sure that he could trust Zathrian's First.


	10. J is for Jowan

Arren swung his sword, taking out the undead on the right, trusting Alistair to deal with the one approaching from the left. The narrow confines of the corridor didn't give them much room to manoeuvre in, but in pretty short order they'd dispatched them and were able to resume progress down the corridor, toward the cell the undead had been showing such interest in before the arrival of Arren and his group.

Something stirred in the darkness of the cell; a man, skin pale as milk where it wasn't darkened by bruises, his black hair hanging lank and greasy around his face, pale grey eyes looking large and frightened, his face gaunt, half-starved looking. A wave of foul odour accompanied him as he moved toward the bars; a fetid combination of moldering straw, rotting food, dust, rodent feces, unwashed body, and the sharp tang of old urine. He stared at them for a long moment, as if having difficulty believing his eyes, his hands clenching nervously in the torn and soiled fabric of what had once been a fine robe.

"You don't look like the arlessa's guards. Are you from outside the castle?" the man asked hesitantly, voice thin and raspy.

Arren studied the man as he questioned him. The man – a mage named Jowan – was timid as a wild thing, frightened of everything, and seemed caught in the grip of a deep despair. Unsurprising, given that he was imprisoned for having poisoned the Arl – a crime he readily admitted to – and for summoning a demon that had killed most of the people within the castle walls, which he vehemently denied. He'd been tortured by the Arl's wife, Isolde, in an attempt to force him to admit to controlling it and recalling it. He wept brokenly as he spoke of how she'd not believed him, only abandoning the torture when the number of the undead within the castle made it too dangerous for her to come down to the dungeon even in daylight.

"I wish I could go back and fix it. I just want to make everything right again," Jowan said, his head dropping into his hands.

"I thought you said you didn't start this?" Alistair asked, suspiciously.

"But I had a hand in it, didn't I? I poisoned the arl, and that's when all this started. So many people died here, I can only imagine," the mage said.

"But this doesn't explain everything that's happened," Arren pointed out.

In the end, his questioning of the mage done, he left Jowan there in the cell; he was at least safe from the undead there, and they left him some food and water before continuing deeper into the castle.

* * *

He had reason to be thankful for sparing the mage's life later; Jowan and his blood magic proved to be their only chance to get rid of the demon short of killing the Arl's young son, Connor. If they'd had enough time, they might have been able to travel to the Circle of Magi, and bring back enough mages and lyrium to make the attempt without the use of blood magic. But considering the state the tower had been in when they'd left it, and how many days it would take to travel back there again, and return...

No. The danger was too immediate. Their choices boiled down to killing the child to prevent the demon that controlled him from causing any further deaths, or allowing Jowan to perform a blood magic ritual so that someone could enter the Fade and attempt to destroy the demon there. Arlessa Isolde, desperate to save her son, freely offered her own life to power the ritual; while he did not like the choice, in the end Arren granted her request; he only hoped they did not end with both mother and child dead.

Wynne did not approve of the choice, or the ritual, but when it came to choosing between her or Morrigan to enter the Fade and fight the demon for Connor's life, Wynne made it clear that she was claiming the task. Remembering her defence of the apprentice mages at the Circle tower, he acquiesced.

The ritual worked.

* * *

"There is still the matter of Jowan. He performed the ritual, and did not deceive us. In a way, he saved Connor's life even though he killed Isolde. I am unsure what to make of this," Teagan said tiredly.

Arren frowned thoughtfully, nodding agreement. He thought again of how frightened the mage was, and the surprising strength of will he'd shown in both proposing and carrying out the blood magic ritual to free Connor. He remembered the mage's wish to _make everything right again_ – a desire he could easily identify with, thinking of his lost friend Tamlen.

"I would like him released," he said abruptly, surprising even himself with the request.

"Released? This mage is a maleficar. Even if I ignore his crimes, I cannot simply unleash him on the land!" Teagan exclaimed, looking horrified.

"Released to me, Bann Teagan," Arren hastily clarified. "I promise that I have no plans to let him run free."

"Very well, do whatever you want with him," Teagan agreed, frowning at the elf. "Considering all you have done to aid myself and my family, I can hardly refuse you."

Alistair protested, of course – Arren just smiled, and assigned the templar to look after the mage. He just hoped he would not come to regret the sudden impulse that had made him ask for mercy for Jowan.

* * *

Arren stood by in the harrowing chamber at Kinloch Hold some weeks later, filled with pride, not regret. He watched quietly as Jowan walked toward the font full of glimmering lyrium-infused liquid. Alistair stood nearby, and as Jowan walked forward, he drew his sword, setting the tip down against the floor with a faint metallic _tink_ , his eyes glued to the back of the diminutive mage. If Jowan failed his harrowing, it would be Alistair's task to slay the man; a task he had promised the mage no other would perform.

Jowan was changed in many ways from the starved, frightened man they'd rescued from the Redcliffe dungeons. Not just in the obvious ways, such as how much healthier he looked, having put back on weight, his skin tanned and body fit from days spent walking in sunlight rather then huddled in the darkness of a dungeon. The change was also visible in his confident stride, in his being _here_ , in Kinloch Hold, going through the harrowing he needed to become a full member of the Circle of Magi. But the greatest change of all showed in the trust he had for Alistair; trust, and more.

Jowan lifted a double handful of the glowing blue liquid, then paused, looking back over his shoulder to meet Alistair's eyes. "I love you," he said, clearly, happily, then turned away again, and drank.


	11. K is for Keepsake

Almost everyone in Arren's party had something that had some special meaning to them.

Alistair had a cracked amulet, clumsily re-assembled, its cracked and crazed surface marked with Andraste's Flame – it had belong to his mother, once. He'd thrown it away, breaking it, in a moment of anger, and mourned its loss until Arren stumbled over it in a desk drawer in Redcliffe Castle, and returned it to him. He wore it around his neck, reaching up to touch it whenever he felt uncertain or worried.

Morrigan had a black grimoire that had once belonged to Flemeth, recovered from Kinloch Hold during a long night full of too much death, too much destruction, too many demons. It was old, the leather worn, the pages yellowed and brittle, but the delicate lines of the tree embossed on the cover were still clearly discernible. She poured over it every night by her tiny campfire, puzzling over the slanting brown handwriting within, often ending looking more unsettled than enlightened.

For Sten, the object he treasured was his sword, Asala, his soul given material form, or at least that was the closest understanding Arren could come to the qunari's explanation of why that specific blade was so special, how no other could replace it. Soul or sword, he would never forget the storm of expressions that had crossed the giant's normally enigmatic face when they'd recovered it; disbelief, joy, awe and profound respect. He'd called Arren "kadan" ever since, and every night before sleeping spent time cleaning and sharpening the sword, caring for it as attentively as if it was his child, or his lover.

Zevran had spoken once of gloves that he had once possessed, when he was very young; gloves that had supposedly once belonged to his mother, though as she had died giving birth to him, he had only the word of a whore that they had been hers. He spoke lightly of them, as if they, and their loss, had not been of particular importance to him, and yet when Arren happened across a similar pair of Dalish gloves, and impulsively gifted them to the elf, he had been almost speechless at first. He didn't wear them himself – they were too small for his hands, he claimed – but he kept them tucked away in one of his belt pouches, and more than once Arren had seen him take them out and handle them while lost in thought.

For Jowan it was the folded parchment he kept carefully stored away in a waterproof wrapping in one of his belt pouches; the document that identified him as a harrowed mage, a member of the Ferelden Circle of Magi, with permission to travel within the lands of Ferelden under Arren's command and Alistair's supervision.

Arren hadn't ever thought he'd be as attached to a simple object as they each so obviously were. Yet after Tamlen's tainted remains had been buried, when Alistair sat down beside him, and silently offered him the small belt-knife that Tamlen had habitually carried for skinning game, in the tooled leather sheath he'd made as a gift for his _lethallin_ some years ago... he took it, staring at it for a very long time before hanging it from his own belt. He touched it often, remembering Tamlen, not as he's been when they'd had to kill him, but as he'd been before their paths had intersected with that of three frightened humans one warm summer's day.

Never again, he vowed each time his fingers touched it. Never again would he fail a friend.


	12. L is for Loghain

Even among the Dalish, the name of Loghain Mac Tir was known. They could hardly not have known of him; the Brecilian Forest was a large part of his Terynir, and he had long been a friend to all elves, going back to his organization and leadership of the Night Elves during the rebellion so many years before. While the Night Elves had mainly been comprised of city elves, some few Dalish had been involved as well; they had little more liking for Orlais than the Fereldans did, and were just as happy to help to remove the invading Orlesians from the country.

In the long years since, Loghain had maintained cordial relations with the Dalish that haunted the forests of his lands; he had been known even among the Dalish as a man of honour, one with a great sense of duty, and fair-minded.

_Had_ been. Clearly he was no more; not when he could so cruelly allow the city elves of Denerim to be sold off into slavery. Not when he could authorize the hiring of assassins and mercenaries to try and eliminate the last remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden, blaming them for the death of King Cailan. Not when he might even have agreed to Anora's captivity in Howe's blood-stained hands.

Arren wondered more than once what had happened to change the once-great man into a petty tyrant. What decisions, what accommodations with 'convenience' over 'right' he had made, what hatreds or jealousies or fears festered inside him to have so changed him. Perhaps it was grief that had changed him; grief at Maric's disappearance, Cailan's death, the potential ruin of the country he so loved.

Arren didn't know. Perhaps might never know. But watching Loghain at the Landsmeet, seeing the expression on his face when the man's own daughter denounced him, hearing the break in his voice as he talked of all he had done for Ferelden... he was certain of one thing. Loghain was a once-great man who was aware of his fall. Who despaired for his country. Who was in terrible pain, like a hamstrung halla watching the wolves closing in, its coat already ribboned with blood from their tearing bites. He deserved a merciful ending, Arren judged – his past greatness demanded no less.

"Make it fast," he whispered to Alistair, after naming him champion for this fight. Alistair nodded, and walked forward, head held high.

It was very fast; a few passes, a blindingly fast exchange of strokes, a stunning blow from Alistair's shield followed with a vicious scything cut... Loghain's head flew free, nobles skipping aside from it as it rolled across the floor. A great silence fell, while Alistair stood staring in disbelief down at the corpse, taking great breaths like a bellows, and Anora stood stiffly by, blinking back tears. Arren walked slowly over and knelt, picking up the still-warm head – carefully, in both hands, showing respect to the man that Loghain had been – and carried it back over, setting it on the floor by the body. A single one of the nobles stirred, and walked forward; Bann Teagan. He removed his own cloak, and spread it over the corpse, hiding it from view.

"Let his body be treated with all respect," Arl Eamon said in a carrying voice. "He was a great man." Arren suspected his motive in speaking so was as likely to be hope of garnering favour with Anora, now Queen of Ferelden in her own right, as any real respect for the man. Yet it would do; of such muddled feelings and compromises were events shaped.

A sad end for a once-great man.


	13. M is for Morrigan

Arren had never imagined a woman like her. Certainly not a _human_ woman like her. From the first moment he saw Morrigan, at a ruin deep in the Korcari Wilds, he had been fascinated by her. She carried herself with a level of self-assurance that few people could emulate, and moved with the same light-footed grace as a halla. The fear the other men had of her surprised him; even Alistair, while not as obviously frightened of her as the others, was clearly nervous of her presence.

Arren couldn't understand why, as he politely answered her questions, and asked some of his own. Learning she was the daughter of Asha'bellanar was surprising; he had heard tales of the woman of many years. Mainly unsettling ones, about her power and her unpredictability, and how dangerous it could be to offend her. When it turned out they had to go speak to her in order to retrieve the lost treaties, he was as polite as he could be, and was relieved that Flemeth seemed more amused by the fear of his companions – and even of his politeness – than disturbed by it.

He hadn't expected to ever see either woman again, but after the debacle at Ostagar, Morrigan was the first thing he saw on opening his eyes. And, at Flemeth's insistence, accompanied him away afterwards, with Alistair. She spent the day in leading them out of the wilds, circling well away from the overrun ruins of Ostagar, north toward Lothering. At night they huddled close to their single small fire, just the three of them, he and Morrigan talking together, Alistair occasionally joining in, but mainly lost in his own thoughts. It was four around their fire the night after that, the mabari hound he'd decided to name Mouse having joined them.

Their first camp after Lothering, she set up her things apart from theirs, with her own small campfire, withdrawing from Arren and his other companions, clearly ill at ease with the increase in their company; the bard, the qunari, the dwarves. He found himself missing their quiet conversations, her sharp wit. Only after everyone had eaten, and dispersed, did she make we way to the central fire, claim a plate of stew, and return to her own spot.

On the third night, when everyone but she had finished their dinner, and he'd seen that she had still made no move to come and join them, he picked up a clean plate, filled it, and walked over to her fire with it.

She looked up from her fire as he drew close. "Arren," she said coolly, dipping her head slightly in acknowledgement of his presence.

"Here's your stew," he said, and handed it to her.

"Thank you," she said, accepting the plate from him. And smiled.


	14. N is for Neverending Stew

They had only been able to find one cook-pot for sale when purchasing supplies in Lothering, among a pile of salvaged belongings one of the refugees was selling. It was at least a good-sized one, a heavy cast-iron cauldron a good eighteen inches across, with a tight-fitting lid and stout little legs so it could be stood right in a fire if needed. Arren hadn't been sure how they'd even carry it, the thing was so large, but Sten lifted it up by its handles as it if weighted nothing, and that was settled. Of course, carrying it in hand was not a good long-term solution, but at least when they set up camp that evening, by the place where the river outside of Lothering swelled into a small lake before flowing off under an archway under the road, they had something they could cook a meal it.

It was, by necessity, stew – a bear stew, since they'd killed several that day. They'd contributed most of the meat to the refugees, but Arren had kept back some choice cuts of the youngest bear, and with that seared over the fire and then cut up and dropped in the pot with water and chunks of root vegetables, a little grain, and a handful of herbs the bard had gathered, they made a good big pot of delicious hearty stew. Far more than they could eat at the one sitting, but as Alistair pointed out they could have cold leftover stew for breakfast the next morning.

They'd purchased some tents in town – a job-lot of them, from a trader wanting to get rid of his goods so he could travel further north at better speed, away from the turmoil in the south. More tents than they actually needed, which at least meant they were able to pick over the heap of them and select the ones in best condition to use. Alistair sat down with thread and needle and a sharp knife, and cut apart and restitched the canvas from one of the leftover tents, producing, in a surprisingly short time, an oversized backpack big enough to carry the cook-pot in. So the next morning they had most of the leftover stew for breakfast, then tied the lid on the pot, and it went into the pack, its bulky shape well-padded in a nest of dried grass, with spare clothing and the leftover bits of canvas tucked in around it. Sten grunted as they settled it on his back, then nodded approval at Alistair for a job well-done.

Supper each night of necessity became stew, made in the pot with whatever leftovers remained from the previous night, and additions of fresh game, more herbs, whatever vegetables they gathered or scavenged or purchased in their travels. Sometimes it was soup, when they hadn't found much in the way of things to add, and needed to make it stretch further with the addition of plenty of good filling water. Even once they finally obtained some other pots and pans – a spider pan to fry things in, a second smaller pot, and the like – the big pot of what they'd dubbed never-ending stew was still their primary source of food each evening.

Never-ending stew... it was in some ways always the same stew, but it was never the same stew twice. One night it would be rich with chunks of fatty roast duck and smoked sausage and beans. Another night it might have a rather unpleasant taste of elderly bear and the sharp flavour of juniper berries and too much salt, trying to hide the age of the meat. Or it might be a thick sludge of swollen barley grains, whatever meat and vegetables were left in the pot reduced to tiny fragments, something they sliced off congealed sticky chunks of the next morning for a cold breakfast before moving on again.

They learned, early on, who could and couldn't be trusted to take a turn at minding the pot. Alistair was a "couldn't" - his love of adding cheese to everything led to the first time they had to scrape out and clean the pot, and start the stew afresh. Leliana was a good judge of seasonings, and almost always produced something delicious, during her time with them; her hand with herbs was one of the few things they found themselves missing, after Arren had dismissed her from the party. Morrigan was good at finding edible things to add in even the most unpromising looking areas of the wilderness. Wynne was the best at making things like dumplings or pan-bread to stretch out the meal. Sten created thick hearty stews that might not be high on flavour but went a long way in the stick-to-your-ribs category. Oghren knew a lot of interesting things to do with nug, lichens, mosses, fungi, and deep crawler, which was a substantial help in the depths of the Deep Roads but was followed by another scraping out and cleaning of the pot once they finally re-emerged from Orzammar; just because it was at least _edible_ did not make it delicious. Zevran produced interesting results, sometimes in a mouth-burning, eye-watering way, having a fondness for more spice than the rest really enjoyed.

It would be one of the shared memories they would all have of those long months together on the road... the evenings spent sitting or standing around a campfire, or huddled in a tent around a pot warmed by the touch of mage-hands and fire magic, plates heaped high with the fragrant stew that one of them had produced that evening, building on whatever stew had been leftover from the night before. An ever-changing flavour that they would find themselves missing, at odd moments in the years afterwards; not for the flavour itself, but for what it had represented. Camaraderie; the warmth of other people gathered around a fire in the darkness to share a meal, and all that went with it.


	15. O is for Ooze

"Ooze. It sounds like what it's describing, doesn't it? Ooooooooze," Alistair said, stretching out the word into an unnaturally long sound, accompanied with some truly odd facial contortions.

Jowan laughed. "At least it doesn't _look_ like what it describes," he said.

Oghren looked up from his drink and snorted. "Saw enough _ooze_ in the Deep Roads to last me the rest of my life," he said. "That broodmother..." he stopped, shivered, then drank another slug from his bottle.

Alistair and Jowan exchanged a look. They'd been among those left behind in Orzammar when Arren went down into the Deep Roads, as he'd decided a small fast-moving party might have a better chance of avoiding encounters with darkspawn. He'd left Alistair, Jowan, Zevran and Wynne behind in Orzammar, while he, Morrigan, Sten, Oghren, and the mabari went down into the tunnels.

None of them had been willing to speak much of their experiences there since returning; those who'd remained behind had been told only the sketchiest outline of events during the weeks the others had been away. Deep stalkers, giant spiders, darkspawn they'd heard about in some detail, but apart from that there'd only be a few obscure references and meaningful looks exchanged among those who had gone. Someone named Rusk, a sighting of the archdemon marshaling its hordes, Hespith, something called "the broodmother", and the knowledge that at the end of it all, Oghren had had to kill his own wife. Hence the nonstop drinking ever since they'd emerged from the tunnels.

"So are we ever going to hear about just what this broodmother thing was?" Alistair asked curiously.

Oghren looked up again, staring off into the distance. "Ask someone else," he said abruptly after a few minutes, shuddering again, then put aside his bottle and clumsily pushed himself to his feet. "Just the memory of her makes me want to ooze from all my orifices," he added, and staggered off into the dark, the sound of retching drifting back to them a moment later.

"Maybe we're better off not knowing," Jowan said quietly.


	16. P is for Practise

Weapons practise each evening had started off simply enough. It wasn't something Arren and Alistair had bothered much with initially; with the amount of fighting they were doing most days there seemed very little actual _need_ for practise. Even Sten, the most formally martial of them, only rarely practised with his sword, and then just slow stylized movements, as graceful as a dance, more like meditation than weapon's work.

But then they'd acquired the assassin, and Zevran practised. _Always_. Every single evening, without fail – no matter how tired he was, no matter how much they'd already fought that day – he was there after the meal, stripped down to the waist, going through forms with his weapons. Paired daggers most commonly, but sometimes longsword and offhand dagger instead, going through the same motions over and over again.

Alistair asked him, just once, why he practised so much. The assassin shrugged, smiled slightly. "If I cannot use my weapons properly, no matter how tired and sore I already am, then there will come a time I _need_ to use them, and I will be unable to. And then maybe I will die. So, I practise."

After that, the three warriors began practising regularly too. Because the elf had a point, and especially for Alistair and Arren, with it just being the two of them left of the Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden, they couldn't _afford_ to die if it could be avoided. And with four of them practising they could do more than just forms; they could spar as well, learning better how to face the sort of fighters each other was, Zevran with his two weapons, Arren and Sten with their one large one apiece, Alistair with his sword and shield.

After Orzammar, Zevran started teaching Jowan some dagger-work as well; just one-handed work, something he could fall back on if he found himself without mana and needing to defend himself. And the practise was clearly good for the mage, not just in improving his physical condition, but in the increased confidence it gave him, that he _could_ defend himself using mundane means if magic was denied him.

Owen, too, took up weapon's work, following the path of the arcane warrior that they'd learned of in the old ruins in the Brecilian Forest. The mage took to sword-work easily; before his powers manifested he'd been a Denerim gutter-rat, adept with daggers, and while his considerable size made daggers a poor choice for him now, with a sword he was an intimidating fighter. In battle, with his arcane powers in effect, he was _terrifying_.

The only one who rarely practised was Oghren; he preferred to watch, a bottle or skin of something in hand, and comment on everyone else's form. His eye was good, and while his comments were rarely delivered very diplomatically, his critique was usually spot-on.

The dwarf wasn't willing to spar; "If I take out my axe," he growled when asked, "It's going to be to kill something. Not to dance around waving it in the air. And I ain't pulling my strokes in a spar, or next time I'm in a real fight I might find myself doing the same."

Just once, Zevran talked him into sparring. It had been an appalling sight, and at the end of it, it seemed near-miraculous that the worst Zevran walked away with was his hair half-undone and a bleeding gash and spreading bruise over cracked ribs, having somehow managed to dodge the worst of the stroke that might otherwise have seen his guts laid open. There was very little of science in Oghren's style, but it was certainly _effective_. No one pushed him for a spar again after that, even Zevran content to let well enough alone now that he'd tested himself against the dwarf.

And so they all practised, every evening, in sunlight and in rain, in thick fog, in falling snow, paired sword versus sword, or sword-and-shield versus daggers, or longsword-and-dagger versus longsword, any and every variation they could think of. No matter how tired. No matter how much they'd already fought that day. Because they _had_ to win, over and over again, every time.

And hope, that when they someday encountered and fought the Archdemon, they would somehow manage to win the one thing they _couldn't_ practise for.


	17. Q is for Queen

"Arren... could I speak with you for a moment?" Anora asked after they'd returned to Arl Eamon's estate from their visit with Bann Teagan and his Cousland guests.

"Of course," Arren said, and followed her to the privacy her room. "What is it?" he asked.

She took a seat, and gestured at the other. He sat down as well, and looked expectantly at her.

"I just want to formally discuss with you what was briefly spoken of at Bann Teagan's townhouse earlier this evening. Just to be absolutely sure we're in agreement. Are you prepared to support me as Queen, and disregard Alistair's claim to the throne as Maric's bastard?"

"Yes. Absolutely. As I understand it you've been trained to be Queen of Ferelden since you were engaged to Cailan as a child. Not unlike the way we Dalish train our Keepers," he added with a reassuring smile.

Queen Anora looked moderately surprised, then smiled back. "Yes. Knowing that I would be Queen some day, my father saw to it that I had a firm grounding in everything that he thought a Queen should know. Which was, let me tell you, an extensive list; my father is nothing if not thorough. Or at least, he was," she added, a sorrowful expression briefly fleeting across her face before it smoothed out again, her composure regained. "Cailan and I were largely educated together, and then father had me studying other useful things beyond that, as well."

Arren nodded. "Well, I see little point in replacing a well-trained, capable ruler just to satisfy those who believe blood is more important than accomplishments. Especially as Alistair has no interest at all in taking the throne, and little to no applicable training. I believe if such came to pass he might well be treated as nothing more than a figurehead for others to rule through, and I will not sacrifice his happiness that way when it is not necessary."

"Then you will support me, regardless of Arl Eamon's feelings on the subject," Anora said.

Arren looked at her. "Arl Eamon's feelings have very little influence on me. Doing my job comes first and foremost, and while that has meant doing some questionable things in order to gather together an army sufficient to combat the darkspawn, it does not mean folding to the Arl's political demands when there is no need to. I will support you at the Landsmeet. All I ask in return is that you support the Grey Wardens, and enable us to do _our_ job."

One of Anora's eyebrows rose. "Not even a request for me to ensure that the mage Jowan remains free?"

Arren smiled. "No. It's in your own best interest to do so, and you have already said you would try to see that he and Alistair were able to remain together. I trust you to keep your promises – even your informal ones, as that was."

Anora nodded slowly. "I believe we have agreement then," she said, formally, then suddenly smiled, a surprisingly girlish expression. "I'd almost forgotten how pleasant it could be, to work with someone who values honesty and straightforwardness over politics. A refreshing change, I must say. Well, it being late and our business finished, I shall wish you a good night."

Arren nodded, and they both rose to their feet again. He gave her a brief formal bow, and turned to leave.

"Arren," she said suddenly, as he was almost to the door.

"Yes?" he asked, looking back at her. She was biting her lip, her hands clasped tightly together in front of her.

"Spare my father, if you can. Whatever else he has done... he has always had Ferelden's best interests at heart. He is no traitor."

Arren nodded, slowly. "If I can spare him, I will. But I cannot promise you his life; too much of how it will play out at the Landsmeet tomorrow depends on his own actions."

Anora nodded, silently, accepting. He turned and left.


	18. R is for Responsibility

Another choice. Another decision. _His_ responsibility, as it had all become since the Tower of Ishal, since the defeat at Ostagar and Alistair's withdrawal. Alistair, who by rights of his seniority as a Warden should have been the one to lead, to make the choices, to face the hard decisions.

So Arren had shouldered the burden instead; made the necessary choices, given the orders, gathered companions, led them hither and yon to organize a resistance to the Blight.

Because if he didn't do it, who would?

And it all came down to this moment; him, on the roof of Fort Drakon, staring at the Archdemon across an empty span of roof, his sword in hand.

He drew a deep breath, and began to run.


	19. S is for Ser Otto

Arren stared at the man's clouded eyes. A blind templar, here in the alienage?

It was only after talking with the man, and agreeing to help him, only after the events in the abandoned orphanage, that he realized how much Ser Otto still saw. He saw only shadows and light with his damaged eyes, but he saw more than that, so _much_ more than that. He saw with his head. He saw with his heart. He listened to them, in the absence of true vision, and saw what others had not.

People in need. Souls in peril. Little caring whether they were elf or human, devout Andrastrian or heretical apostates.

And he did what he could to help, even at the cost of his own life. Dying, in the end, speared on a rusty pitchfork, stabbed from behind, the one direction he could not see, had not been able to guard. Killed by a demon that had been unable to sway his belief, unable to frighten or bribe him into co-operation or complacency.

There were only a few people Arren ever met or heard of that he thought truly deserving of the title of "hero". Ser Otto was one of them.


	20. T is for Tamlen

They snuck off together, slipping away from the aravels as soon as they could. There was a lake not too far away, they knew from the last time the clan had been through this area. A small shallow lake, and a cliff with a narrow waterfall falling down it, straight into the lake, the water foaming white around its base.

They went there, together, as they did everything together, sneaking away from the tasks they should have been doing to help set up camp. Once there, they quickly stripped off their clothes and ran into the water, splashing and chasing each other around until they were tired, before floating on their backs in the sun-warmed water.

"We're going to be in trouble when we go back," Arren pointed out after a while, always the thoughtful one, the responsible one.

"Not for long," Tamlen replied, then flipped over and splashed water at Arren. "Race you to the waterfall!"

They swam there as fast as they could, arms and legs splashing mightily with their effort. Arren won the race, this time, a rare victory over Tamlen. They had a water fight among the foaming waters, then swam slowly back to shore, pleasantly tired after their long day of travel, unpacking, and play.

It was Tamlen who, as they were dressing, had the wild idea. He always had the wild ideas, the ones that got them in trouble. He held up his belt knife. "We should be blood-brothers," he said. "Like in the the stories."

Arren was hesitant, but Tamlen always had been good at talking him into things against his better judgement; in the end he drew his knife as well, and the two boys carefully cut the heels of their palms, pressing bleeding flesh together and swearing eternal brotherhood. Not, Arren thought, that they _needed_ the words, or the exchange of blood, to make real the bond they already shared. It did not forge the link they had; it merely acknowledged it.

They got into trouble for that, too, once they finally made their way back to camp, the Keeper, thin-lipped, giving them a lengthy lecture about the dangers of it even as she bandaged their hands.

* * *

He felt him before he saw him; a pull, a warmth, like the sense that told him when Alistair was near. Only this was not Alistair, and the warmth of him was not comforting, but more like the feeling of strong sunlight on already-sunburnt skin; warmth edging on pain.

"Tamlen," Arren said, voice flat with shock and disbelief. It couldn't be Tamlen. Tamlen was _dead_.

But it was Tamlen, very much alive; alive, and in pain, driven more than half-mad by the taint that raged in his body, a taint so strong he felt more like a darkspawn to Arren's senses than anything human. And yet that warmth was there, when he closed his eyes for a moment, holding back tears. That warmth that said companion, that said friend, that said _lethallin_ even as Tamlen said that word himself, in his ruined voice, _begging_ Arren to end his torment.

He knew the others would do it, if he asked, Alistair or Zevran or any of them. But this was _his_ blood-brother. His responsibility. He had failed Tamlen before; failed him at least twice over, in not stopping him in the cave, and in not finding him afterwards.

He would not fail Tamlen now.

"I'm sorry, _lethallin_ ," he said, his own voice rough, as he drew his sword from his back. "Forgive me."


	21. U is for Unwilling

"It's odd, isn't it," Morrigan remarked over the meal, looking off to the far end of the campsite where the others were gathered around the communal fire. "How many of us are here against any desires of our own."

Arren looked up, and frowned. "You don't want to be here with me?"

She smiled warmly at him. "With you, yes. But surely you must recall that I only joined this little expedition of yours in the first place because Flemeth forced the choice on me."

Arren nodded. "True," he agreed.

"And your own addition to the Grey Wardens that ultimately landed you with this responsibility – it was a choice between death and the joining, was it not?"

"Yes," Arren agreed, and frowned in thought.

"Mouse was a lone survivor, his previous master already dead, you the only being apart from his kennel master – presumably dead at Ostagar – that he knew. Sten we rescued from slow death in Lothering. The bard joined willingly enough, I'll grant you that," she added, then shrugged. "But she did not last."

She put down her plate, and continued ticking off their companions on her fingers. "The assassin failed to kill you and lived, and therefor became a target for all other Crows, leaving remaining with you as his one hope of safety. Wynne joined willingly enough, but her other choice would have been to remain in a Tower where almost all of her compatriots had just died vilely, staffed by on-edge templars, while hiding the fact that she had acquired an in-dwelling spirit. The difference between which and a demon is likely to escape those who have just suffered through an outbreak of the latter."

Arren slowly nodded, and took up the count. "Jowan we rescued from prison and a likely death. Oghren had become an outcast in all but name, and had nothing left to keep him in Orzammar. Mara and Owen were in danger of punishment by the chantry for having been too effective at saving others during the demon outbreak," he finished, and frowned. "I see what you mean. The only one of us who was actually willing to be here from the start..."

"...is Alistair," Morrigan said, and turned to look across the camp again, eyeing the ex-templar. "Willing enough to join the Grey Wardens, anyway, knowing what he did of what his future would likely be... and even then, he had to be conscripted in order to get him out of the grasp of the chantry. I do wonder if he was truly as willing as he seems, or if that is merely a pretence. Lying to _himself_ , to make himself feel better about yet another choice in his life having been forced upon him," she clarified.

"I don't know. I doubt if even he knows, or could say," he added, then smiled. "Still... for a random bunch of rejects, we're doing a good job, so far."

"That we are," Morrigan agreed, and picked up her plate again. "I think perhaps the most surprising thing about such a mixed bag as this is that we are all, as the assassin would say, _ridiculously awesome_."

Arren laughed, and resumed eating, lips curved in a broad smile.


	22. V is for Victory

Arren stood on the edge of the precipice, hair blown back from his sweat-streaked face by the hot updraft from the molten river far below. The spot where Caridin had vanished beneath the surface, a brief darkening against the bright orange glow, was already long gone, swept away.

He turned his back, feeling unaccountably tired as he looked around the cavern. Oghren still knelt by the motionless corpse of his wife, where he had been since her fall, alone with his thoughts and his dead. Morrigan sat tiredly on a rock outcrop nearby, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. They were all tired; bitterly tired, from the long days spent in travel underground, far from the surface world.

He longed for sunlight. For the quiet of the woods, and trees and life around him, not these terrible dark and largely lifeless tunnels. For the wind in his hair, and the smell of the outside world, not dankness and darkspawn. Even the dwarves were worn down by it, and this was their natural habitat. Even Sten, who never tired, looked exhausted and sad.

He walked over and set his hand on Oghren's shoulder. "Time to go," he said, quietly. "Do you want anything done with her?"

Oghren looked up, then shook his head, once. He lifted the broken body in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder, and walked away. Arren looked over at Morrigan, then followed after him, as he walked up the out-thrust jut of rock, to where the golem had taken his last step, his long fall to a final ending. He thought, briefly, that the dwarf meant to send her broken body after Caridin's, one Paragon after the other. But no; Oghren stopped by the cracked ruins of the Anvil, and set her down there, gently lying her down on her back, crossing her hands on her breast, brushing her lank hair back from her too-still face.

"She spent lives to reach this damned thing. Her own, and others," Oghren said, voice hoarse and cracking. "Let her lie here with it for eternity," he said, then turned his back, and walked away.

He did not look back.

As Arren followed slowly in the dwarf's footsteps, he wondered how many other victories they would have like this one; not ones to be celebrated, but to be mourned. "Morrigan. Sten. Brosca. Princess. It's time to go," he called out, quietly, voice hushed. He picked up the pack that contained Caridin's last masterwork, and left the cavern, following after the dwarf, the others trailing behind him.

He did not look back either.


	23. W is for Worry

Arren unharnessed his sword from his back, and sat down tiredly on a log near the fire, resting the massive two-handed blade against one knee, the point slanting off to one side of the circle of stones before him. He dug in the pockets of his backpack, taking out whetstone, polishing cloth, and oil, then lifted the hilt of the sword in one hand, tilting it from side to side as he peered down the mirror-smooth length of the blade, examining the edge.

Alistair sat down nearby a few minutes later, leaning his shield against the log between them before unsheathing his own sword – his father's sword, a blade of precious dragonbone, inset with glowing runes – and began to care for it as well. As they worked in companionable silence Sten joined them, kneeling down on the ground with Asala balanced across his knees, carefully setting to work on the same task as they, of maintaining the edge of his blade.

It was soothing work, Arren had always found, and he was not surprised when Oghren put aside his flask and joined them, settling down to work on the edge of his own weapon. Others came gradually and joined them; anyone with a weapon. Zevran with his twin blades, as bright and flashy as his smile and style of fighting. Owen, settling down beside him with the enchanted sword he used, which as far as Arren could see never took any damage, but which Owen still checked and oiled regularly. A movement in the darker shadows behind the pair was Tria, only the glint of her eyes and the sound of her whetstone giving her presence away. Jowan came as well, with his single dagger, sitting down beside Alistair, dark head bent beside light one. Wynne came, and Mara, though they had no weapons to ready. And Morrigan, joining them for once instead of staying separate, sitting down at Arren's feet, her shoulder resting against his knee. She did not speak, but he felt her hand curl around his ankle, in the shadows where no one was likely to see it, felt the slight tremor in her fingers, and knew she was as worried as the rest of them.

It was quiet, none of them talking, just the rasp of metal or bone against whetstones, the crackling of the fire, the sounds of them breathing, the faint sounds of the army encamped some distance away. So quiet, for an activity that was a precursor to battle; a battle that would likely begin early the next day, Denerim being just a couple of hours walk away now.

Arren drew a deep, calming breath, looking around the fire at the faces of his friends gathered there. They were ready for it, he hoped – all of them ready. And yet he feared that even now, they were not. Feared that after having passed through so much together to bring them to this point, that tomorrow they might yet fail. And if they fell... so, too, would Ferelden. It would be up to Grey Wardens from elsewhere to end the blight.

He wondered, briefly, about the silence from elsewhere – the lack of assistance. True, Loghain had ordered the Orlesian Grey Wardens turned back at the border before Ostagar – only Riordan had slipped in. But there were other countries, other forces. Why this continuing silence, when Grey Wardens should have been streaming to Ferelden from all over Thedas to help?

It was, he decided, something to worry about another day. _After_ they had won the battle. If they won. If they lived.

"We should sleep," he said quietly, when the last whetstone had been put away, the last weapon sheathed. No one answered – they just rose, and walked off, in their ones and twos, to their separate tents. He doubted any of them would sleep. He knew he likely wouldn't.

He took Morrigan's hand, helping her to rise, and walked off silently with her, on this their last night together.


	24. X is for Xylem

"...and this is the bark. Which can be chewed or brewed into tea for headache," Arren said, holding up the strip of willow bark, the partially peeled willow withy held up in his other hand.

"Fascinating. _Do_ tell me more," Morrigan said, and pushed his hair back out of his eyes, winning a smile from him. He lifted his head enough to kiss her – an interestingly different kiss, given that he was laying down on his back on the sandy bank of the stream, while she was on her stomach upside-down to him, head propped up on her arms so that her damp hair cascaded down around both their face. They repeated the experiment several times, before he put his head back down and continued his explanation.

"Bark. Yes. And then this inner part is the wood, or xylem, and the soft core of that, the pith, makes a fine tinder for starting fire..."

"Mmm-hmm," Morrigan hummed, and nodded knowingly, and bent her head again, the pair of them laughing as they kissed.

He smiled up at her. "You know all this," he told her gravely.

"Perhaps. But I like hearing you explain things. Tell me about something else now," she said, shifting her weight to fold one arm under her, her chin supported on one hand as she smiled down at him, face hanging just inches above his.

He smiled again, little crow's feet forming at the corners of his bright green eyes. "Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know... all the parts and uses of the dandelion, perhaps?" she suggested, and picked one that was growing nearby, lowering it to tap the golden bloom against the end of his nose.

He laughed, and caught it out of her hand. "Well, you can eat the greens, they make a good salad..."


	25. Y is for Yesterday

Arren rolled over in bed, and looked at the woman sleeping so quietly next to him. Her hair was down, spread out in a tangled curve across the pillows that put him in mind of the sweeping curve of a raven's wing. Appropriate, considering her many abilities. He picked up a strand between his fingertips, pressed it lightly to his lips.

It almost hurt to look at her now. Knowing that what had grown between them over the long months of travel together was going to come to an end, and that very soon. He had known all along that something might happen; that one or the other of them might die. That even if they lived, even if they won, eventually changing emotions might dictate them going their separate ways. But he had never imagined something like this. _Knowing_ that he would loose her in a few days time, win or lose – that she would leave him, no matter how much they might both wish to remain together. That she would leave him, even though now, after the events of the night before, she would carry away some tiny part of him with her. Especially because of that.

He closed his eyes, and lowered his head beside hers. " _Ma emma lath_ ," he whispered softly, words he had never been able to bring himself to say aloud before, not in her tongue nor in his.

It was only when she stirred that he realized she was not, in fact, asleep. Her hand touched his cheek, and when he opened his eyes, she was there, face just inches from his, her own feral gold eyes meeting his green ones, filled with both sorrow and a deeper emotion. " _Emma vhenan_ ," she whispered, and leaned closer to press her lips to his forehead.

He smiled even as his eyes fill with tears, hearing the endearment from her lips in his own tongue. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, burying his face against the warm skin at the base of her neck. " _You_ are my heart," he told her. Then, "I don't want you to leave."

"I know, my love," she said quietly, one hand cupping protectively around the back of his head, cradling him close to her. "But I must. What we did yesterday..." she broke off.

"I almost wish I could take yesterday back," he said after a moment. "Except..."

"It's better to live," she said, almost calmly, only a faint tremor in her voice betraying how much she, too, wished that things had not come down to this. "Even apart."

He nodded, and hugged her tightly. They stayed like that, for a long time, just holding onto each other desperately. They had so little time left... so few tomorrows to look forward to, and those filled with travel and danger, and possibly death at the end of it anyway, no matter what success the ritual they'd enacted the night before had achieved.

When they finally began to move again, the touches they shared had nothing to do with arcane ritual, but with a far older magic instead. Words were not needed between them, as hands and bodies, lips and eyes spoke of love, and the fear of its ending.


	26. Z is for Zygote

So few days since Redcliffe, since the ritual. Only because of the ritual itself was she even certain that something had occurred; otherwise it would be weeks yet before the absence of her monthly courses made it clear that anything had indeed happened. But the ritual _had_ worked, and because of that there was something inside her now; something that partook of both her and of Arren. That combined them into a new thing, that some nine months from now would be a new person.

She stood and leaned on her staff, gasping for breath as she watched the Archdemon writhing on the roof; crippled, half-dead but still alive, still vile and dangerous. She watched as Arren began to run toward it, catching up a sword sticking up from some poor fool's body on the way, his own massive two-hander having been knocked aside in the final moments of the fight. She _stopped_ breathing for a moment, as he ducked under the ponderous sway of head, and slashed its throat open from jaw to breastbone in a spray of blighted blood.

The head dropped heavily to the roof, the creature, once a thing of grace and noble beauty, before the darkspawn had found it, had woken it and contaminated it, slowly expiring. Arren raised the sword on high, then plunged it downwards, giving the dragon what final mercy he could.

She had not expected to feel anything. But as bright light, blinding in its intensity, enveloped her love and the fallen creature, she felt... _something_. Fear for him, which she had expected, since even now she was not completely sure the spell would work, would save him from obliteration as the power of what had been a god poured into and through him. Something dark and malignant, corrosive and full of anger, _that_ she had half-expected, but whatever that was went _elsewhere_ , away, though the Veil and into the Fade where it belonged, perhaps.

But something remained. _Something_ lingered. For a moment she had a vivid memory, of a time years before when she had learned some particularly difficult spell on the first try, and Flemeth, standing behind her, had set her hand on her shoulder, and said, voice warm with approval for once, _well done, my daughter_. The impression was so strong she turned, half-expecting to see Flemeth standing there. But, no... mother was gone, wasn't she. Killed by Arren, at Morrigan's own frightened request.

She glanced back over her shoulder at him, as the light faded, saw him drop limply to lie beside the beast he had slain. Alive or dead, she could not tell from here, but... _alive_ , she hoped. Had to believe. She turned her face away, letting her staff drop to the rooftop, no longer needed. Already she was shifting form, running forward and launching herself off of the roof and into the sky with a jump of thrusting legs that were changing shape and size even as she leapt, arms spreading wide and sprouting feathers to catch the wind that blew up past her as she plummeted downwards. And then she soared, up and away, even as night was falling on the beleaguered city far below. Not raven or hawk this time, but golden-eyed owl, suited to the darkness beyond the fires that dotted the war-torn lands below.

She had a long, weary way to go before she dared rest, and few enough days to do it in before the tiny cluster of cells drifting lose inside her reached their destination, and began to grow in earnest, grounding her in her natural form until the child was born. If all went well. _Their_ child, she thought.

And did not look back, knowing she left her heart behind her.


End file.
